


intricate rituals

by avoidfilledwithcelluloid



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, also mentions of the grund monster, there's blood in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 22:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10173614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avoidfilledwithcelluloid/pseuds/avoidfilledwithcelluloid
Summary: "Late night is a shade darker than the curls sticking out from under Jughead’s beanie and oh boy, oh man it's one hell of a night to be staring a friend in the face. "starts during the porch scene from ep. 2 i think. takes a different turn. a more punchy turn. and then a more gay turn. lots of turns involved.





	

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading my fic i wrote bc i wanted to give jughead a bloody nose amen

Late night is a shade darker than the curls sticking out from under Jughead’s beanie and oh boy, oh man its one hell of a night to be staring a friend in the face. Threats thread themselves to the tip of Archie’s tongue but he can’t say any of them. Somehow to say the words would break the fragile ice between himself and Jughead. As long as the ice stays still he can pretend nothing has changed. Everything is perfect. No one is dead. There was no gunshot.

“What _are_ you going to do?” Jughead says. He laces his voice with a challenge, a feint to make Archie jump back out of himself.

Archie pulls back and lands a hard punch right on Jughead’s nose. Beneath his knuckles, the sting of skin smacking skin gives way to the sensation of bone crunching. Jughead stumbles backward with his hand clutched over his nose while Archie shakes his hand. A little blood dribbles down the back of his hand while the song of his fist still echoes back around in Archie’s head. He stares at the sidewalk. What the fuck did he just do?

When he looks back, Jughead stands with hands at his side, loose fingered with stained palms. Blood trickles out of his nose down over his lip and when he opens his mouth red drips on his teeth. Moonlight spills over his shoulders and outlines his pasty skin in pearl. With the back of his hand, Jughead wipes some of the blood away and stares Archie down, eyes too bright to be safe. _That kid’s got dangerous eyes,_ Archie’s dad used to say. _He’s always got something going on in his head, doesn’t he?_

For a moment, Archie doesn’t notice until Jughead smacks into him. Now they’re going to fight, really fight this time. Archie’s never been in a fight before but he’s seen them on TV. Like a dance for two boys hopped up on revenge or love or just ugly feelings, the players circle each other until someone makes the first move. His hands raise up to protect himself but Jughead’s thumbs have already pressed into his cheeks. Hands holding him hostage, Jughead kisses Archie hard. He’s got lips tacky with blood and a strong grip that Archie wrestles against but oh! There’s a sudden softness to the kiss, a slick crushing together of mouths that Archieleads into.

Too soon Jughead pulls back. Metallic red smears around his mouth and makes his lips shine brightly as a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses on a sunny day. Silence lingers between them until Jughead starts to laugh. It’s wild and hateful but that laugh is so familiar Archie can’t help the fondness that wells up. Fondness twists together with a blooming dread— a dread that holds his stomach in a merciless grasp. What the fuck had he done? What the fuck did they do?

“You’re sick, Andrews,” Jughead says. “First you’re all over Ms. Grundy, then you’re kissing a guy you just popped in the nose.”

“I’m not— _you_ kissed _me_!” Panic feasts on Archie’s insides. “Listen, I’m sorry I punched you. I’m sorry, okay? But you’re the one who made it all gay.”

“Yeah,” Jughead says. “Well.”

His face falls from transcendent glee to ash. Dressed in grays and blacks he looks like a burnt matchstick crumbling after being set on fire.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Archie says. “I mean, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“I won’t say anything.” Jughead won’t look him in the eye. A drop of blood rolls down his chin and hits the pavement. “Scout’s honor.”

He watches Jughead readjust the strap of his bag, knocked askew from the punch. More than anything Archie wonders if it hurts— if it aches or pains him. Jughead’s face twitches a thousand micro-winces. He moves, dream-like, down Archie’s driveway and into the street where his bike lays in unhappy silence. How long had Jughead been waiting for Archie on his porch? Long enough to muster up whatever something made him shove himself against Archie? Long enough to decide the right words to confront him with? Nighttime swallows Jughead up as he pedals away. Archie strangles the urge to say goodbye. His nose isn’t broken but something aches inside anyway.

…

Bruises ring Jughead’s eyes, tinged with neon pink lighting, and even from a distance Archie sees a new tilt to his nose. Wind whistled outside as he lets the door of Pop’s shut behind him. Empty night tonight. Slumped to the side, Jughead’s cheek drags on the window with the corner of his mouth dripping a single line of drool. His laptop sits, open, on the table in front of him and glows an eerie blue-green. Archie makes his way over with quiet steps.

He dreamed about Jughead after the fight. Never _those_ kind of dreams but still. Dreams of them wrestling over and over again around Archie’s driveway until both of them bled all over each other. In the midst of all the blood, Jughead would lean up and kiss him in such a graceful touch, a brush of lips that sent his skin singing. The dreams left Archie waking up in savage thrashes. Sometimes he woke up hoping for the violence. Sometimes he woke up yearning for the kiss. All the time he lifted his head from his pillow with images of Jughead laughing on the inside of his eyelids.

A waitress moves like a worn shadow and refills Jughead’s coffee. Up close his visage mists over from coffee steam and the stretch of skin against the glass. Archie tries to sit without doing anything too loud but the cushion squeaks and Jugheadjolts awake. Jerked out of one dream state into another, more visceral one, the ridges of Jughead’s broken nose stand out more to Archie now. In their canyons is his guilt, his actions’ consequences. He twists his hands together over and over until Jughead snorts him back into himself.

“What are you doing here?” Jughead asks.

“I wanted to see you,” Archie says. “To say sorry. Again.”

“Well,” Jughead says. “Are you actually going to say it or just allude to saying sorry?”

Archie bites back on the question of what allude means.

“Can I buy you a burger?” he asks.

“In the time it took you to ask me that question,” Jughead says, “you could’ve already ordered me a burger and said you’re sorry. No pickles, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“On my burger,” Jughead says.

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Archie says. “Should’ve remembered.”

“You’ve got other stuff going on. Why remember my burger order?”

Archie shrugs and waves over the waitress to order. He glances at Jughead’s cup.

“Do you want anything else to drink?” he says. “Maybe like a latte or something?”

“Archie Andrews.” Jughead rolls his head back and closes his eyes. “Are you trying to feed me into forgiving you?”

“I don’t know.” A look of modest embarrassment passes over Archie. “Is it working?”

“It’s not.” Jughead reaches out and slurps down a long drink of his coffee. He uses his other hand to point at Archie. “He’ll have a cup as well, lots of creamers. Can you make that burger to go?”

Archie rubs the back of his neck while the waitress moves back toward the kitchen. He hasn’t been in Pop’s in a while— just milkshake dates with Betty. The only places he and Geraldine ever went were her house or the woods. Sometimes they made out in her car which creaked whenever he moved. Every time they made a sound Geraldine stopped and made him look out the windows to make sure no one was around. Part of him hated the secret of it all, the sneaking around. Another part of him understood the necessity although that part was small. What stings him still is the fact that Jughead knows. Somehow the idea that Jughead, apropos of nothing, stumbled on them makes Archie’s insides go gooey but, like, bad gooey— faces melting from radioactive energy waves sort of gooey. Now Jughead owns both of Archie’s secrets.

Across the booth, Jughead slumps further down in his seat. He looks out the window with an expression Archie can’t read— something between contemplation and irritation. God, he really fucked up, didn’t he? Just making one person after another disappointed in him.

“Did you drive here?”

“Yeah.” Archie coughs to fill the gap of silence. “Just my dad’s truck.”

“Will you drive me somewhere?” Eyes focused somewhere far away, Jughead taps his fingers on the table. His nails are bitten down to jagged curves.

“Uh,” Archie says. “Sure. Yeah. Whatever you want.”

Jughead waves his hand around as if dispelling whatever Archie said out of the air. His laptop makes a whining noise and parts of his body— his mouth, his shoulders, his arms— still look like they’re asleep. Archie tries to think of something to say but nothing comes to mind. Jughead knows everything that’s going on in his life. As much as he follows the shadows, Jughead is not often in the dark about things.

“So,” Jughead says. “Do anything fun this week?”

“I got an A on my history test,” Archie says.

“That must’ve been a great triumph for Betty,” Jughead says. “Her tutoring paid off.”

 “Yeah. Well. Anything new with you?”

“Nothing I want to share,” Jughead says. Does he always have to play the cryptic? A moment passes and he reconsiders answering. “I also got an A on my history test. Got extra credit for knowing the dates.” He settles down with his head balanced on top of his arm and one hand scrolling on his keyboard. “Made my dad super proud, I bet.”

They sit in a silence that borders on uncomfortable but never quite makes the shift. This is not the first silence to pass between them— won’t be the last. Archie pulls out his phone, checks his messages and finds a couple cat videos from Betty, a tentative text from Reggie about some party. He doesn’t answer them. Instead, he reaches over and tugs on Jughead’s laptop.

“What’re you looking at?”

“None of your business,” Jughead says. He points at his nose. “People who physically assault me don’t get to know about my online activities.”

“C’mon,” Archie says. “I know you’re writing something. What’s it about?”

“A history of latent homosexuality in varsity football players.”

Archie shuts up and goes back to his phone. Betty sends him a video of two cats pushing each other into a box. While he’s watching it, the waitress sets a clearclam shell burger box down on the table along with a paper cup of coffee. Around it, she drops three individual sized creamers— all French vanilla— and the check.

 “So.” Archie hands the waitress cash. “Where do you want to go?”

“Take me to the drive-in,” Jughead says. He flips his laptop shut with one hand and shoves it into his backpack alongside the plastic clam shell. Before they leave, Archie dumps all three creamers into his coffee and uses his pinkie to stir everything blonde.

His car sputters as they drive. They pass the grocery store and the all-night church. Scenes of families helping each other put groceries away and the figures of tired people shuffling in and out of church doors pass by as Jughead stares out the window. Light illuminates him in seconds that distract Archie from the road. He tries to keep his focus, he really does, but having Jughead in his car again zaps his brain. When he pulls up to the drive-in, the gate is locked.

“Damn.” He hits the steering wheel. “Sorry, man.”

“Don’t worry,” Jughead says. He pulls a ring of keys from his jacket pocket. “I’ve got it.”

On the way to unlock the gate, Jughead jingles like Santa’s sleigh. In his jean jacket and dark pants, Archie can’t make out what’s Jughead and what’s nighttime. Which is probably the point of whatever argument Jughead is making with his clothes. Once he shoves the gates open, Jughead jumps aside as Archie pulls into the deserteddrive in. Whenhe parks, the truck’s bed faces the screen. Jughead climbs into the bed and makes crinkling sounds with his hamburger box. By the time Archie comes around, he’s got half of the burger stuffed in his mouth.

“Waited for the whole damn drive,” he says through mouthfuls. “You’re lucky I didn’t snarf it down at thediner.”

“What’s lucky about that?”

“Dunno.” Jughead shrugs one shoulder. “The experience is better here.”

“Yeah,” Archie says. “Prettycreepy, though.”

“Mm. Nobody here but us chickens.” A little smear of ketchup stains the side of Jughead’s mouth. “You should come during Halloween. They let me play whatever creep show I want. One time I did _Night of the Living Dead_ and a girl ran out crying.”

“I’ve never seenthat,” Archie says.

“No way,” Jughead says. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“Wait here.” Jughead throws his empty clam shell behind him and hops out.Jangling all the way, he goes off to the projection house. Archie’s brain stalls out and he tries to think of something nice. A music room, clear of dust and full of sounds. Betty laughing at a picture on the internet. He pictures Geraldine with her hand on his chest but his brain snaps to her whispering for him to stop bringing up the gunshot. _That’s enough Archie. Can’t we just enjoy ourselves?_ Memory gets stuck in his windpipe and Archie chokes quietly. He needs to think of something else.

Clicking resounds through the deserteddrive in and a picture appears on the screen. Grainy black and white images come into slow sharpness while Jughead jogs back over.

“Don’t you need to work the projector?” Archie asks. Jughead shrugs as he leverages himself back up.

“It’ll work itself just fine,” he says. “Now shut up. The movie’s starting.

Archie checks his phone. 8:45. His dad will be looking at the door with disappointment with every minute that passes. But he owes Jughead— double owes him now. Is a school night worth the guilt he’s had in his chest all week? Jesus. Yeah, it is. Feeling guilty bites the big one. So he keeps aninterested face as Jughead talks over all the dialogue and nods at every background production story. That’s the least he can do, right?

“They used chocolate syrup for blood,” Jughead says. “For all the scenes where they’re eating bodies, they’re actually chewing up ham covered in chocolate sauce.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I know, right?” Jughead grins wildly. “Isn’t it just so, so gut-bustingly gross?”

Zombies overrun the final scene as Archie catches his breath. That last gunshot, the stagger backward of Duane Jones, reverberates against the walls his body spliced together with the memory of the other gunshot. His hands shake like leaves caught in an autumn wind and beside him, Jughead vibrates.

“What an ending,” he says.

“They shot him,” Archie says.

“Delivers the ultimate message: humans are the real monsters. Romero really knows how to deliver that gut punch, huh?”

“That’s fucked up.”

“That’s the truth,” Jughead says.

He leans over and steals Archie’s coffee, greedy fingers smudging prints against the paper. Nothing new— Jughead is a criminal with food. If Archie had to count the times Jughead pilfered snacks from Archie’s lunchbox the numbers would go so long he’d fall off a cliff before he finished. A wince scrunches up Jughead’s face and he shoves the cup back into Archie’s hands.

“Ugh,” he says. “Cold.”

“Yeah.” Archie puts the cup down next to his feet. “Sorry about that.”

“You’re so good at apologizing for dumb shit,” Jughead says. He rubs at his nose with a direct gesture. “But you won’t say you’re sorry about this.”

“I thought I already said I was sorry. Like, a hundred times.”

“No,” Jughead says. “You said sorry that night but it doesn’t count.”

“What? It does too count.”

“No. It doesn’t. You weren’t sorry about punching me. You were just sorry that I kissed you.”

So. There it is. They’re going to talk about it. Even though both of them agreed to not talk about it. Or maybe Jughead remembers that part differently too. Maybe Archie’s memory is bad. Sometimes people tell him he’s said stuff and he can’t place what happened in a neat pattern. Everything is a jumble— a puzzle someone threw in the air.

“You should see a doctor about that,” he says.

“I’ll see a doctor when you see a therapist,” Jughead says. “Someone ought to examine your head for why you’re doing your teacher.”

“Shut up.” A rough texture invades Archie’s voice. “Just shut up.”

“Listen,” Jughead says. “You don’t have any right to be upset with me about Grundy. I’m not the one fucking up your life. That’s you. You, Archie, are the one punching your friends. Not me, Jughead.”

“I’m not upset.”

“I’m afraid to say that you’ve got your fists clenched in rage,” Jughead says. “Classic sign of anger. I’ve seen it, read it and written it before.”

Exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, Archie throws his hands up and runs them through his hair. Jesus Christ. Around him, the air grows hot,steams against his skin.

“I’m sorry.” Archie slams his eyes shut and grits his teeth. “Can’t that be enough?”

“No.”

When Archie opens his eyes back up, his coffee is gone. Jughead slurps the coldlatte and finishes it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Okay,” he says and tosses the coffee cup out. “Let’s talk this out. Why did you punch me?”

“I,” Archie starts. “I don’t know.”

“You know.” Jughead shakes his finger. “I know that you know.”

“I guess I was just mad,” Archie says. “Mad about Geraldine. Mad that people kept trying to act like they knew what was going on. And then you start telling me you know about us, that you know about me, and I just couldn’t stand it. It’s like everything overflowed and you—”

“I was there,” Jughead says. “And, admittedly, verypunch-able.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Afraid I’ll do it again?”

“What? No. You can’t answer a question with a question.”

“Why not?”

“Because” Archie says. “Rules. There’re rules.”

“Maybe I like to break rules,” Jughead says. “Maybe that’s why I kissed you. Because I wanted to break some dumbol’ rules.”

He rocks, arms tucked together across his chest and a deep frown sketched onto his lips. Another answer plays on his features, one that is more satisfying or more truthful. But honesty is a rare currency in Riverdale— something traded only in small circles. Jughead plays a poor liar even if the last time he confronted Archie with the truth he got a broken nose. So Archie waits for something to come next because there’s always been more to Jughead. There’s always another word to be said.

“I kissed you, I guess because I wanted to touch you,” Jughead says. “I thought about hitting you back and you know I can hit back hard. But I knew that wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be equal. So I kissed you because while part of me felt pain, the other part was so full of heat, of pressure, to make you hurt too.”

Archie keeps his head down but watches Jughead from the corner of his eye. He appears in sharp focus— a picture turned to the highest resolution. Right now Archie’s not sure if there’s anger or sadness in his heart but he knows one thing. A well of emotion, whatever its name, pools itself inside him and bubbles thickly.

“So it was just to get back at me?”

“Violence begets violence,” Jughead says. He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. He knows that’s the truth, that if he’d never punched Jughead there wouldn’t have been a kiss, but a little wish still flickers inside him for that blood-wet kiss to have been real. Perhaps that is the more frightening idea— a desire beyond brutality. A want that transcended touching to fulfil an easy emotion and begged a more complex reasoning. Those thoughts sting Archie’s brain from how big they are. When he looks at Jughead, he doesn’t see the same swirl of emotion. There’s just tiredness around his eyes.

“Do you know something?” Jughead looks over at Archie. “I didn’t get an A on my history test. I failed it. Big time.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t go to class.” He laughs low and unfolds his arms to rub his hands together. Late night chills have hit them both and Archie tugs his letterman’s tighter. “I fell asleep in the student lounge and when I woke up the test was over. So I just ditched the rest of my classes to come here. Not like I was really doing anything in that class anyway.”

Archie reaches out, hesitant handed, and grasps Jughead’s shoulder. Beneath his feet, the truck bed isn’t there. He floats on insistent feelings of friendship, on the urge to take Jughead in close and be let into his world. For once, Archie doesn’t have a thought spared for Geraldine. All that’s on his mind is the present— the jean jacket he’s touching, an echo of grease and the small burn in his throat to say something stupid. He should resign himself to being the boy who things mean something to, the guy too stupid to know when a gesture is empty or when it’s full.

“Jug,” he says. “I’m— that’s rough.”

Jughead leans into his hand. On a different day, in a different place, there might have been a ritual performed where Jughead would’ve moved away and Archie would put his hands back in his pockets and everyone would pretend that nothing happened– replay of that night on Archie’s driveway with a less bloody tang. But right now there’s no one but them. So Jughead lets Archie slide him in close and Archie lets himself press his cheek against Jughead’s like they’re people who really like each other.

“This is so indie cinema,” Jughead says. “This is such a Sofia Coppola moment.”

“What?”

“Never-mind. How are you warm? I’m freezing.”

“It’s my jacket.” Archie opens the side of his lettermen. “They make them thick. You want to get in on this?”

“Isn’t that a little too _gay_ for your tastes, Archie Andrews?” Jughead raises an eyebrow that Archie responds too with a fire alarm flushed face. Cheeks stinging, he jerks up and let’s go of Jughead, who falls to his elbow and swears.

“What the hell?” he says.

“I didn’t mean it.” Archie snaps his lips together and fiddles his fingers together, rocking a little with frustration. “What I said that night. I didn’t mean to say that it was gay, or anything. Well, okay, maybe I meant it but not in a bad way. At least, I don’t mean it in a bad way _now._ Because I thought about it, uh, thekiss, more than I thought I would so I guess I sort of liked it. But now you’re, like, not into the whole thing so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I guess we just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Kinda hard for me to do that,” Jughead says. “Broken nose and all.”

“Yeah,” Archie says. “Probably.”

“And pretending it didn’t happen didn’t work either because, well, here we are talking about it. Plus neither of us can even say what _it_ is.”

“But what do we do?”

“We could leave things where they are,” Jughead says. “Know what we did and never do it again. Keep our fists to ourselves. Or.”

“Or what?”

“Or we try again.” A singular smile traces over Jughead’s mouth. “You tell me what’s going on, buddy. Using your words this time, okay? I don’t think my beautiful face can handle another pot shot.”

His hands clench in and out of fists. A burst of need flows through Archie’s chest and in this moment he near confesses the whole of himself. Maybe now there can be a time without brutality, the kind of brutality that has flooded Riverdale these few months. Yet some things remain locked behind solid walls and he can’t reach them, not even for Jughead. So instead he lays back and shuts his eyes, imagines a universe where he’s neverkissed anybody. The closeness of Jughead’s body increases— a coolheat leaning against Archie’s side. Should he open his eyes?

“I can’t do it, Jug,” he says. Soft puffs of air grace the top of his lips. No, he won’t open his eyes, not now, not ever. Archie hasn’t got any space in his head to see anymore. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

_ Because I’m afraid, _ __ Archie thinks.

“Because it’s too much,” he says.

Jughead’s lips are chapped and scratch against Archie. He cranes his neck toward the kiss like a magnet— dragged into something unknown. But how unknown can this be? They’ve kissed before and even before that, there were thousands of times when he looked. Because he always looks— involuntary but only just— and sees every color contained in Jughead.

“Trust me,” Jughead says. He’s got his sweaty palms clutched over Archie’s and he presses down. “Trust me like you used to.”

When he squeezes his eyes tight, behind his eyelids he sees handsome bruises.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> did you for real like what i wrote? even if you didn't like it, come follow my [tumblr](http://avoidfilledwithcelluloid.tumblr.com/)


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